Stolen
by oypoodle
Summary: Dealing with that little comment Jim mentioned about locker room fantasies. Smutty smutty smut.


"Uh…" It's an awkward stammer, his voice dying on his lips. He tries to avert his eyes, tries to move backwards because this isn't right, he shouldn't be here. But he can't, he cannot move.

Her back tenses at his voice. He can tell because her shoulder blades peaking out from above the cotton towel contract quickly. Her hand stills on the cool metal of the locker door and she tilts her head to the side slightly, not quite facing him, but enough so that he can just see the outline of her nose, if he looks carefully. He always looks carefully.

"I'm sorry, I, uh, didn't realize-" He swallows and he keeps his eyes on the milky skin not covered by the towel.

"I'll just-" He pauses and shuts his eyes tightly because this is just way, way too much and he cant possibly control himself if she is standing there, in a towel, wet and-

"I'll just go."

She turns slowly and any possible thought of him leaving the room quickly dissipates. Her hair is wet and dripping around her face and his eyes follow the renegade drops as they cascade down her collarbone. She can sense the path of his eyes because she pulls the towel tighter around her body and averts her gaze to the door behind him.

"Karen already left." She says quietly, her voice the saddest he has heard it in a while. It is then he realizes he hasn't heard her voice in a while. He feels a twinge in the bottom of his stomach.

"I know." He says. She looks up quickly with a questioning glance and he shoves his hands awkwardly in his pockets.

"She forgot her bag, or something. I thought everyone had left."

A small 'oh' shape forms silently on her face and she turns around again, messing with the dial on the locker. He chews on the inside of his cheek and throws his head back in momentary agony.

"Shit." It is a whisper, barely coherent. His head snaps back down and he looks at her back. The same hand is still clutching the towel tightly but the other hand is held in front of her, in slight awe. He can see blood pooling in the palm of her hand from where he stands, even in the slight dark.

It takes him three strides and her hand is in his and he's scrutinizing it under the lull of the pale yellow light.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. You are bleeding."

"It's just a cut. I have a band-aid in my bag."

"Give me it."

"Jim-"

"Pam."

She holds his gaze in silent determination for a moment before shying away and swinging open the locker door, handing him her purse.

"Sit." He says gently and she is surprised in herself that she actually listens. She sits down and her hand is in her lap and there are little drops of crimson tainting the vibrant white of the gym towels.

He's digging through her purse and she finds it oddly personal. She has things in there that are…personal.

He pulls out the band-aid triumphantly and sits down with a grin on his face. She gives him a small, terse smile as he reaches for her hand gently, pulling it into his lap. He peels the backing off with his teeth because his hands are occupied with hers and she watches the action like an animal stalking its prey. The dull ache in the pit of her stomach has been constant since his hands wrapped around her hips last May.

He smoothes the plastic over her cut carefully, barely a feather touch, and his thumb rubs gentle circles on her wrist. It becomes increasingly apparent that their knees are touching and she's wearing only a towel held together by her now shaking hand.

She meets his eyes and her face crumbles just a little because he's holding her wrist and she recognizes that look in his eyes and it's a memory of periwinkle dresses and a broken boy and she knows, she knows everything and nothing has changed.

"I missed you." She whispers and she thinks if she were standing this is where she would fall into his arms and he would rock her until she falls asleep.

But she isn't standing. She's sitting and she doesn't know what to do with this. So she holds onto his hand and she feels empowered when she feels the slightest bit of a squeeze.

She scoots closer and she leans her head against his chest and his hand releases her wrist and he wraps his arms around her damp body and thin towel. He smells like the ocean and something spicy and it's everything she remembered and the thought makes her eyes tear up, just a little.

She pulls herself closer as his fingers spread apart against her back and she can't see the struggle on his face. She can't see the manifestation of desire and restraint contorting on his face. It's killing him but he wouldn't want to die any other way; it's the best kind of pain.

"Pam." It's not a question. It's not even a statement. She doesn't know what to consider it but she can't think because his breath is on her neck and her eyes drift shut. She lets out a soft, content sigh and her lips find the vein under his ear. They both freeze in the moment. Her lips are absolutely still and his entire body is unmoving.

And then its quick. So quick she barely registers what's happening expect his hands are running down her bare arms in a way that is slowly driving her crazy. So quick he can barely let a thought cross his mind except Oh God, she's in his lap and there's only this towel.

He stands and she's still in his lap and the towel loosens slightly as her back hits into the metal. Her hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt and her lips find the throbbing vein on his neck and he braces himself with one arm, letting out a low growl.

Her hands slip under his shirt and her nails rake against the skin on his abdomen and this towel just, it can't, it needs to not be there. He moves her hand from its awkward position between them, holding her towel up and she complies.

The cotton falls in a damp pile around his ankles followed by the jeans he wore earlier and soon he's moving inside of her and she's gasping his name, nails digging into his back.

He looks at her face as her hips grind against his in that way that's slowly driving him closer to the edge and he's surprised to see her eyes looking deep into his. Even though they are both barely holding on she puts her hand on his cheek and kisses him tenderly, like she has done it every day of her life. She kisses him tenderly and he smiles and then everything is moving fast again. The momentarily lapse in time is overcome by their frantic movements.

His hands in her wet curls. Her teeth on his ear lobe. A whispered plea to please, please, just-

She comes and drops her head on his shoulder. He follows and buries his head in her neck. He sits back on the bench they had sat on just moments before in what could be construed as a perfectly innocent situation, surely neither had expected this, and he brings her with him.

She wraps herself around his body, holding on for the life of her. She tries not to move because she doesn't want him to think. She doesn't want him to ask what-

"What does this mean, Pam?"

His hands are rubbing gentle circles on the base of her spine and his voice is cautious in her ear, scared, vulnerable.

She balances her chin on his shoulder and plays with the hair at the base of his neck. The hair that curls slightly but hasn't been as eminent since he got it cut.

"I love you." His body tenses and the gentle circles stop. "I think that means I love you."

She thinks he's going to throw her off or pick up her towel and gently hand it to her. He always was the gentleman. He is with Karen. She is too late. The possibilities for rejection from him are endless. But the circles continue and she swears, hopes, she can feel him smile against her.

"Well," He says and she is positive he is smiling because there is sunshine in his voice. "I always have had a fantasy involving you and a locker room."

And nothing and everything has changed.


End file.
